Sleepovers At 221B
by TheGoldenCrown
Summary: Sometimes Mary Watson just needs to spend the night with Molly Hooper. Sometimes John Watson just needs to spend the night with Sherlock Holmes. Rated K for safety.


**A/N: It's like, 3:00 in the morning :D **

**So I am really obsessed with the idea that Molly and Mary are super close friends, and I will be really disappointed if it isn't written into the show. It's so adorable! *squees* It's a female Johnlock kind of :D This is inspired by two lovely fics by rukushaka, who is quickly becoming one of my favorite fanfic writers. The fics are In The Dark and The Best Cure and yes, they are amazing, and yes, you should check them out. They can be found in my favorites :)**

**[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]**

One.

Mary came home shaking from the weight of the sky. All her problems lately were collected on her shoulders. They were, she acknowledged, relatively small on their own, but why in the name of sweet sanity did there have to be so many?

She wanted to pull her hair out and scream, fruitless as she knew that would be. She spent her trek into her bedroom considering the disdainful way Sherlock would regard her lack of logic as he tried to offer his own awkward brand of comfort. Just the idea of it helped, but, of course, it wasn't Sherlock that she called upon removing her coat and flopping down onto her bed. No, that was Molly all over, and it eased the stiffness of Mary's body just to hear the sweet soprano tones of the recently acquired but no less dear friend.

As soon as John came home, he knew something was amiss. A foot inside the door told him that the warm vibe his wife typically exuded was absent, despite the fact that she obviously was not, at least not physically. Her shoes in the middle of the kitchen floor put the seal on his concern, and he hastened to assure himself of her well-being.

She was fine.

She was laid out uncomfortably on the bed, the angles of her arms and legs awkward and stiff again; the hand that held her mobile fell to rest beside her head, and though she tried to ease his worry with a smile, her husband crossed the room in two strides and took her hand, attempting to surmise her physical and emotional state simultaneously.

When she found her voice, she made it come out calm. "I'm fine, love. I've just had a stressful day."

She saw questions flit across her husbands face, but she couldn't answer any. She'd broken down in front of him before, and was not embarrassed to do so, but tonight she wanted a different kind of company. A non-romantic one. A specific one.

She forced herself to sit up, and she folded her hands in her lap. John pressed a soothing hand to her back.

"What do you need, love?" he asked.

She sighed silently. Despite the fact that she knew he understood completely, she was hesitant to tell him that what she required was not his company.

"I was actually planning to go to Molly's. I'm sorry. I know you had hoped to spend time with me tonight, but... that's what I need."

John nodded, unable to hide a hint of reluctance. At least he wasn't hurt.

"Alright, then. I take it you've called her?"

She nodded. "She said to come over when I was ready."

"Anything I can help you with?"

Sherlock answered the knock at the door, and his impassive expression quickly fell as he processed an unfamiliar sight; a vulnerable Mary Watson. He opened his mouth to speak at the same moment that Mary raised her hand to prevent him and Molly shoved him out of the way to hug Mary in the hall.

Mary inhaled sharply and dropped her bag, wrapping her arms around her friend and taking in the comforting smell of lemon soap.*

Sometime during that long hug, Sherlock had moved the bag to Molly's bedroom. He was waiting on the couch when the women came into the hall and shut the door. He watched them patiently, waiting for instructions. Mary thanked him for the bag and squeezed Molly's arm.

"Sherlock, we're going to go to my room and talk for a while," Molly obliged. "How bout you go to your lab, and we'll text you if we need you."*

Sherlock nodded instantly and grabbed his phone from the sofa beside him, waving it to show he had it. He walked calmly and silently past the pair to the door and headed downstairs.

Molly took Mary to her room and they sat on the bed, Molly leaning back against the headboard with Mary sitting up between her feet. Mary let out a sigh as Molly reached for the brush on her bedside table and began to comb gently through her friend's hair.

"So...Tell me what's wrong."

The next day, once the wife and the maybe-sort-of-girlfriend were at work, John and Sherlock sat around poring over cold cases Lestrade had brought in. John was keeping an eye on his watch; he himself would be due at work in less than an hour.

As Sherlock closed another file and tossed it above and behind him onto the couch, John stretched in his armchair, and they both came around to the same train of thought.

"So what were they-" John began.

"I believe the term is 'spooning," Sherlock replied casually, flipping open another file.

John raised an eyebrow at the man on the floor. "I was wondering if they were sleeping."

Sherlock nodded absently. "Yes, I believe my flatmate was trying to sing your wife to sleep."

John nodded. "How do you know so much, though?"

Sherlock passed the file to John. "They texted me at midnight, asking for cocoa. When I went up, they were lying in the bed. Molly had her arms around Mary and was stroking her hair and singing. Mary looked as though she was very nearly asleep then; I can only assume she went to sleep soon after, as she appeared well-rested this morning."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "I do believe my flatmate is magic."

He looked at the doctor. "Reminds me of someone."

John grinned.

oOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOo

oOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOo

oOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOo

oOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOo

The Other.

John had resigned himself to the fact that he would probably always have nightmares about Sherlock Holmes, just as he had nightmares about Afghanistan after years of relative safety in London.

Some nights it was enough to talk to Mary about them. Sometimes he had to call up his friend to hear the reassuring rhythm of his voice, to know for sure that he was alive. Sometimes he was unable to sleep without seeing the man in the flesh.

On one such night, at 2 PM, he rolled over onto his side and woke Mary.

She blinked at him with tired eyes. "What is it, love?"

Seeing something in his expression, she drew up her brow in concern and began rubbing his back. "What do you need?"

"I need to see him," was the simple reply.

She understood. There'd been a long month during which John had needed to visit Mary at work because of the nightmares. She'd seen the terror drain out of him upon a single glance at her face.

Once, she'd asked for the content of the nightmare. He never told. But she heard him shout her name once, and the fear in it had haunted her all the next day.

In some ways, it was harder with Sherlock, because the memories were real, and John had admitted to her that in the early hours of the day, it was hard to believe that his return was more than a dream.

With all of this in mind, Mary nodded her consent, and kissed John goodnight. She knew she wouldn't see him till morning, when he'd return to have breakfast with her before they had to go to work.

John got dressed, made sure his wife was adequately covered, and left the house, locking the door behind him. He hit the second number on his speed-dial and called Sherlock as he hailed a cab.

"Hey, Sherlock. Listen, I'm coming over."

Sherlock didn't ask questions about the nightmare. He knew what it was about.

Instead, he set up himself and John on the couch in a pile of blankets and pillows, covering up his friend before returning to work on his laptop. He knew that John just needed to be beside him, and he was happy enough to lend his shoulder to him as a pillow.

"If you turn on the telly, keep it down a bit," he told him. "Molly's sleeping."

John nodded tiredly. He had no desire to watch telly.

"Tell me about the case. I'm assuming you've got a live one?"

Sherlock nodded, allowing a small smile for his ever-present amazement at his friend's own deduction skills.

"They're tracking the murderer, but they want me to decipher the motive, so that they'll have a lead on the next victim. She's a serial killer, and they want to protect the right people."

"Mhmm," John murmured. "Worthy cause."

"If you like. But I'm beginning to wonder if the killings aren't just random. The first victim was a forty year old man with a wife but no children; an accountant. He wasn't wealthy, he didn't have anything of value, and he'd only just moved to London. Then the second victim was a girl in her twenties, without a job, but with lots of money. She'd inherited it. The girl had no family left after her aunt's recent death, and she'd been in the same area all her life. On the other side of London from the first victim. Absolutely nothing in common."

John muttered something about eyes, and Sherlock chuckled.

The doctor felt a twinge of sadness for the young second victim, and then he was asleep.

John woke to a light pressure on his shoulder and his name. He opened his sleepy eyes and peered at the detective, who was still folded up on the couch underneath him. He sat up.

"Bed?" he muttered.

Sherlock nodded.

"You comin'?"

"Yes."

John got up and headed to the bathroom to change into pyjamas, then went to Sherlock's bedroom and climbed under the sheets on the right side. Sherlock gathered a few sheets and a blanket from the couch and brought them into his room, spreading the blanket and a sheet over the bed and folding the remaining sheets at the end. Then he climbed in next to John and turned to face him.

"Goodnight," he yawned, receiving a vague nod in response. John fell back to sleep immediately and Sherlock listened to his breathing for a few moments before drifting off himself.

John had another short-lived fit during the night, after which there was some touching of hands and some murmured words (_Yes, John, I'm alright_) before they succumbed to unconsciousness again, this time lying shoulder to shoulder with hands almost entwined.

oOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOo

oOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOo

oOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOo

oOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOo

Both.

There were those lucky nights where each Watson needed the companionship of a resident of 221B simultaneously, leaving no John alone, missing his wife, no Mary missing her husband.

One evening, when both Watsons were trying to separately assess the finer points of a recent discussion (not an argument, by any means, but not particularly pleasant), Mary found herself eating ice cream in a blanket fort in Molly Hooper's room, and John found himself watching crap telly with Sherlock Holmes and talking about anything until they passed out on the couch.

It's therapy.

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]][][[][][][][][][][][][]][][][][][][][][][]

**A/N.2: A couple things. **

*** I am a magpie. I take headcanons from the unsuspecting Sherlock Headcanon tumblr. One of those is that Sherlock has a lab in 221C now. Another is that Molly uses lemon soap, which has a calming effect on people. (It named Sherlock, but I'm assuming Sherlock and Mary here).**

**Also. Molly Hooper is, in most of my fics, Sherlock's maybe-sort-of-girlfriend and undisputed flatmate. She sleeps in Jawn's old room, and she keeps an eye on Sherlock. **


End file.
